


What a Wicked Thing to Do

by for_autumn_i_am



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alphas are Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Biting, Blow Jobs, Crack Treated Seriously, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Consent, Fix-It, Good Ol' Anal Sex, Gothic, M/M, Marking, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omegas Are Werefoxes, Porn with Feelings, Porn with Lore, Power Bottom Francis Crozier, Sexual Tension, Size Kink, Victorian Attitudes, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22264909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/for_autumn_i_am/pseuds/for_autumn_i_am
Summary: Lust spreads like fever. It is aimless; it cannot be named. It is a vague craving for human flesh.  To be embraced. Penetrated. Claimed.Oh, he is too old for this.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 41
Kudos: 145





	What a Wicked Thing to Do

**Author's Note:**

> Please refer to the end notes for content warnings and a list of side ships

_September 1846_

“There’ll be no melodramas here; just live men, or dead men,” Francis says, as measured as he can possibly manage to be. His hand aches from hitting the table: that was a mistake. He should not be perceived as emotional; excitable; hysterical. He settles back in his chair, blinks once, hard. James regards him as if he sees him for the first time. Twists his jaw; his tongue pokes the inside of his mouth. He is chewing on words unsaid; Francis can guess their content: James’ eyes are fathomless as he squints at him, _sniffs_. Good: let him catch a whiff—he will not smell fear on Francis, even though his heart is thudding when, for a moment, James bares his teeth. He stands the command of his gaze: refuses to bare his neck to him, to ever submit.

“It’s certainly good to see colour in your cheeks again, Francis,” Sir John says with a patronising air. Francis turns to him, slowly, fully expecting the _but_ that follows, some foolish, frivolous excuse worth the life of a hundred men. “ _But_ we are two weeks from finding the grail,” is what Sir John says, empty words of promised glory that makes Francis squeeze his eyes shut, and shut his mouth, _Arthur never even found the grail; how is that your best hope, pray?_ “It is my belief that God and winter will find us in safe waters by the end of the year: The Sandwich Islands, or even further.”

Francis’ hand curls into a tight fist. “If you’re wrong, we are about to commit an act of hubris we may not survive. You know what men are like when they are desperate. We both do.” He stares him down, waiting for his words to settle. Sir John’s eyebrows are pinched in thought: but the way he twists his lips in distaste tells Francis it is no time for innuendos. “We cannot winter over that sort of desperation without restocking our supplies.” 

“The tins—” Sir John begins.

“Not the tins,” Francis says meaningfully. “The suppressants.”

An uncomfortable silence settles. The same silence that prevented his urgent plea of a restock to be met at Baffin Bay: Sir John had assured him they could wait until they reached O’ahu. 

“Surely,” Sir John says, “we can expect you gentlemen, our alpha and omega brethren, to conduct yourself for a brief winter.”

“Eight full moons,” Francis insists, “before we can hope for open waters, should there be no thaws: eight heat cycles for over forty alphas on board—half as many omegas, but no less vulnerable to instincts when the suppressants lose their potency, which is expected to happen by early October. We need a fresh batch, or we may be responsible for—” He licks his lips. Searches for a delicate way to phrase it. “Starting families in a desolate land,” he manages. “We cannot take responsibility for children—”

Sir John raises his hand. He does not look at Francis, but Francis knows better than to go on now. Sir John, a beta man, has never been understanding in these matters. He feels James’ eyes on him, but ignores his probing stare. Eager puppy: he would agree to anything Sir John proposes.

“There are no children aboard at present,” Sir John says. “Let’s keep it that way, shall we, and not worry ourselves with the threat of infants. Lieutenant Irving?”

Irving perks up, although his movements are fairly limited with Jacko comfortably perched on his back. “Yes, sir?” 

“As an omega yourself, could you vouch for the conduct of your peers?” 

“I believe that with God’s guidance, we shall weather through the winter without giving in to temptation, sir.” 

Francis twists his neck to stare at him: Irving does not dare meet his gaze, blinking rapidly as he looks at Sir John, a sincere smile on his lips. 

“Well, then—” Sir John begins, but Francis interrupts swiftly. 

“Have you ever gone without suppressants, Lieutenant Irving?” 

“I haven’t, sir,” Irving admits meekly, “but the testament of missionaries assure us that it’s possible to cleanse ourselves of instinct through prayer.” 

Francis turns to Sir John again, an eyebrow cocked. “With respect—did prayer help your men?” 

Sir John is silent. The man who ate his boots: the man who let his men eat less; had alpha wolves drag his sleigh to safety: they never fully reclaimed their humanity. Without mating, alphas and omegas turn to infertile beasts; the longer they wear fur, the harder it is to turn back. Given enough time, they can never be human again. 

“If the desire of reproduction is suppressed, it ceases to be a necessity: the body adjusts to it,” Irving insists, eyes bright and the colour of his cheeks high, his conviction making him bold now. “One is not turned into an animal, sir. It is the desire for sin that makes us change skins.” 

“Would you like to see for yourself how long you last?” Francis grunts. 

Irving straightens up. “I would gladly stand any test.” 

“That’s decided, then,” Sir John says, cheerful as ever. “Those affected shall make an exercise in prominence. I trust you won’t fail, gentlemen.”

“Only make it a proper test,” Francis proposes. Tries not to be eager; not to show how much depends on it. The ice is the most serious matter: but the lack of suppressants is the more pressing problem. There shall be a solution for both of them. “There’ll be a full moon tonight: if all officers willingly abandoned suppressants, we shall see how far gentlemanly conduct can take us; but should we be unable to fight our instincts—let us go for broke posthaste; reach the Hudson Bay Company’s outpost at Gladman Point and restock, winter in a safe harbour.” 

Sir John considers the plea; comes up with nothing—turns to James, and raises his eyebrows at him. James is lost in thought; rare of him, to think. He meets Francis’ gaze. 

“If we limit the scope of your experiment,” he says, “we limit the results. Naturally, we shall keep this upsetting exercise from the men, but I propose that the marines should be involved in our plans.” 

“Excellent idea,” Irving chimes in, and Hodgson nods to it; Francis feels something stir within—a vile feeling, too much like jealousy, making him wonder if James has a sweetheart in the marines’ ranks and wants an excuse to mate with him; but the accusation is unfair—a vulgar stereotype; alphas have a much greater control of their temperament than society would believe. James will doubtlessly behave, just to irk him; he will show Sir John what a good boy he can be, how absurd Francis’ worry is. 

James will, indeed, do his best to sabotage the experiment: involving more men could be the key to it. If only some fail, he might still have statistics on his side, to prove that the journey is safe to continue after all. Francis has heard James brag that he plans to walk home through Russia: let him walk on four feet, then. If only he did not endanger the crew with his want of fame and promotion, he could be the highest-ranking cur in society, for all Francis cares. 

“Let’s say twenty-four hours then,” Sir John says as he stands, eager to conclude an unpleasant meeting. James is the first to jump to his feet; Francis expects him to transform any minute and wag his tail. He has seen him once in wolf skin: on their first introduction, a large black wolf smiling as it treaded alongside Sir John through the teeming port. 

_Meet Commander Fitzjames_ , Sir John said, who found the incident most amusing; Francis had looked into amber eyes that no longer reflected human reason, and wondered, with a clenching stomach, how could an officer be so irresponsible as to sink to this state. They must have found a turned omega for him, for the next time they met, James was mostly human: but he had to be kept in the hold, on chains, wearing a leather muzzle and biting on a makeshift snaffle until he was fully himself again. 

Suffice to say, Francis was not impressed with him. 

* * *

“What an exciting experiment,” McDonald remarks. Francis lingers by the door, regretting coming here at all. 

“If it ends well, perhaps,” he mutters. McDonald is lining up the dark, brown bottles of suppressants: Francis yearns for a taste, even though the tonic is unbearably bitter, and causes severe headaches, nausea, and melancholy. 

“Twenty-four hours shall be safe enough, even with a full moon. Should anyone feel the need to terminate the experiment, I’ll be up and about all night to receive them.” 

Francis looks him over. The man is bright, chipper. “You’re an omega,” he remarks carefully. “Are you comfortable treating alphas in a rut?”

“Certainly; I’m a bit of a medical wonder, you see.”

“How so?” Francis probes, even though the delicate subject makes him feel awkward; the room feels too small, suffocatingly so, and he is but a big, blunt object in it, always in the way of somebody. 

“My heat cycle is merely a technical affair,” McDonald confides him as he flies about the empty sickbay like a busy bee. “I never feel the desire to mate.” 

“Don’t you turn?” 

“I do, yes,” McDonald says. “But even my animal mind is unoccupied with reproduction; there’s just a call for shelter, food, survival. It’s easy to find my way back to human consciousness.” 

“You’re a wonder all right,” Francis muses. His experience is—different. 

“This condition might be more common than we suspect, but we still rely on the Greeks with our understanding of sex and the sexes.” 

Francis gives him a taut smile and nods. Even the word _sex_ leaves a sour aftertaste. He lived without it most of his life; but for him, it was not easy; could never be; over fifty, he is no longer fertile, but his desire refuses to ebb. He could have had an honest life, if Sophia said yes: he could have loved a beta woman, even if they could never have had children. But Sophia had found his manhood compromised, lacking; cited a supposedly feminine instinct to nurse, protect and breed Francis never even felt. Not all omegas were gentle homemakers and instinctive parents: and Francis suspected the same could be said for beta women, whatever society expected of them—but how could he have had any hope to make someone from a more respectable sex ever understand his plight? He himself could only make so much sense of it. 

An omega from his background has no prospects. The best they could do was join the army or the navy, where suppressants were both obligatory and free; there was no danger of ending up with more children they could afford, wasting away in poverty. But omegas rarely get promoted: alpha males are preferred for their fighting instincts. 

He tried to reason with Sophia, _I made it this far; what’s going to stop me now?_

_I will never understand this mania for the Passage; to go thousands of miles to a place that wants you dead._

A knock jolts him; he is about to apologise and flee, but it is only Thomas, who is delighted to find him there.

“Giving up already, eh?” 

Francis rights himself, as if Thomas ever cared if his lapels were in perfect alignment. “Just checking if we’re in safe hands, and that the hands are safe themselves; what’s your business?” 

“Laudanum,” Thomas says, giving a sideways glance to McDonald. “Or whatever you have.” 

Francis frowns, concerned. “Already?”

“No, but it’s coming.” 

McDonald looks politely puzzled following their conversation; Thomas deigns to clarify. “My wife’s an alpha. Being apart from a bonded mate and my family causes severe mental pain, which can lead to a nasty case of melancholia. The suppressants usually take care of it.” 

“You don’t have to partake in the experiment,” Francis presses.

“Oh, but I do: it might serve Sir John to know that good married folk suffer just as much, if not more, than fellows howling at the moon to get their rocks off.” He rubs his nose, and peers at the doctor. 

“I suggest wine of coca,” McDonald muses, and goes to fetch the bottle. 

“I’m drinking your whisky with it,” Thomas threatens as he takes his seat on the nearest cot; tests its bounce.

McDonald calls, “I don’t suggest taking it with more alcohol than already involved.”

“You get to keep your whisky,” Thomas allows. 

“No use,” Francis says, leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed. “I shall keep a clear mind, and keep watch.” 

“No, you’ll be raging with it too. If I were you, I’d stay in my cabin, lock the door, and y’know. Take care of it.” 

Francis scoffs at the suggestion. Masturbation is dangerous: doctors he talked to said it could lead to insanity or even death. He wonders what might McDonald say on the matter, but he offers no comment, and Francis will not press. It does not stop the metamorphosis, in any case: merely slows down the painful process. 

“Much good that would do to me,” he remarks, “without a mate.” 

“You could always ask Fitzjames for a favour,” Thomas says, wiggling his eyebrows. Francis tries not to laugh: it would not do to mock a commander in McDonald’s presence. James is, undoubtedly, the most handsome and fit of the alphas aboard: but he will not be howling at Francis’ door. 

* * *

Jopson folds up a square of linen with delicate care. “This should go into the Jaeger trousers, sir,” he says, “and be changed every four to five hours.”

Francis groans. He is sitting on his bed in shirtsleeves, dreading to shed the trousers of his uniform. They seem like the last article of his dignity: like armour, hiding his shame. The moon is on the rise, and he can already feel himself getting slick. The sensation is divorced from emotion: arousal is absent—might stay that way; he hopes it will. 

“My sisters use a belt,” he says, before he can catch himself; it feels wrong, to share such intimate secrets—but Jopson had seen him piss and shit; did his laundry; he will be the one to wash his slick-soaked linens; the least he deserves is honesty. “They’re all betas, but for their time of the month, they have this special belt that keeps the linen in place. I cannot wait to abandon underwear, once we’re back in England.” He pauses. “When we make it back.” 

“Underthings have their uses, sir,” Jopson muses, proudly surveying his handiwork. He gives the Jaeger trousers to Francis, the linen placed in the back, but not affixed. “Don’t jolt about too much.” 

“Don’t plan to. Will be in my bed, cursing nature. You should retreat to your own cabin.” 

Jopson hums, noncommittal, and kneels to ease of the stiff boots from Francis’ feet. Francis senses he is nervous about something; but it is like he is anticipating it at the same time—his gaze, attentive always, keeps straying to the door. He has never seen Jopson in heat: but he is young—it must be quite overwhelming for him; his cheeks are already reddened, and it must take great control to still prioritise Francis’ needs. 

“You shall have this night for yourself,” Francis says in no uncertain terms. 

Jopson glances at the door again. The dark wood looks like a cave’s opening in the candlelight: a square of nothingness. 

“If I go out there—” Jopson says. Sets the boots aside and swallows. “Can you smell them, sir?” 

The air is heavy with the scent of alphas: a maddening musk that makes Francis squirm and reach for the Jaeger trousers. “They can smell you too,” he says. 

Jopson licks his lips, keeps his eyes trained on the exit. Makes no move for it: sits back on his heels while Francis shuffles to change trousers; pulls the uniform back over the underpants. Tucks in his shirt. Adjusts the braces. Jopson still has not moved. 

Francis sighs heavily. “Are you a virgin?” 

Jopson shakes his head, then blinks. “Mostly.” 

A door creaks. 

“Only ever been the active participant before, sir,” Jopson clarifies. “I don’t know what it’s like, with an alpha.”

“You could find out.” 

Heavy steps across the great cabin’s floor. Almost hesitant. There is a pause. 

“Sir John expects our best behaviour.” 

“You can behave to-night. Anything can be endured for a night. Imagine a year of it. Two. Three.” 

The steps resume, dragging. Get so close Francis can make out slow, ragged breathing. 

“I thought,” Jopson says, “that if I don’t know, it’s easier to endure; that I wouldn’t miss it, could stay on suppressants and settle for beta company.”

“I won’t fault you for seeking knowledge.” Francis gives him a weak smile. “We’re in the discovery service, after all.”

The stranger is at the door. Claws tap on the wood. _Tk-tk-tk_.

Jopson’s eyes are pale and round. 

“Shall I send him away?” Francis asks gently. 

The stranger whines. 

Jopson opens his mouth, but cannot speak. 

The smell is overwhelming. 

Francis gets to his feet, grabs his coat, puts it around his shoulder. Some poise must be allowed; some semblance of stature. He sniffs, and marches to the door with a proud gait; all but tears it open. 

The first thing he notices are the claw marks on the wood, deep and jagged. Then, the hand: human, but the nails are sharper. He looks into Lieutenant Little’s face: his eyes ablaze, his pointed teeth, the desperation in his gaze. 

“Oh, Edward, _no_ ,” he says. “Absolutely not. I’m much flattered, but it’s out of the question. Dismissed.” 

“It’s not you I’m here for, Captain,” Little says. Francis turns back to the room; Jopson is still on the ground, knees pulled up to his chest, but his ears are perked. 

Fuck, he has fox ears already. 

“You may go with Lieutenant Little,” Francis says, “or you can go to the sickbay. Whichever you prefer.”

Jopson makes a sound that is too close to a wail. Little and him are looking at each other as if Francis was not even present: as if he was transparent. The best he can do is step out of the way. 

Little goes down to his knees, and clicks his tongue, beckoning. His eyes are more clear, bright with relief. Jopson crawls to him on his hands and knees, alert, resolute. They sniff each other. Francis becomes interested in the ceiling. Thinks about hours, days wasted with courtship: how much easier it seems—far more honest, to simply display and follow desire; but danger lies there. Not for Jopson: Little will make a docile mate; but Francis could not possibly expose himself in this manner. He only mated with an alpha once, when he was a lieutenant: memories from their night of passion left him feeling bare; that he ever indulged so—that he let somebody so close; he did not even know his name. It did not seem to matter. The world had narrowed down to heat and need, hunger and release. To think that he let himself be raptured; the haunting notion that he had been more aware of himself that night than ever; that the Francis wearing a uniform, mixing with polite company, chatting with fine ladies was the misguided one, following a false star. 

If only the call of nature were not so frightening. 

Shameful.

Debasing. 

A grunt draws his attention: Little stands up with Jopson hauled over his shoulder. 

“Adieu, then,” he hears himself saying, rather absurdly; but Jopson answers, as if the conversation was orderly and perfectly polite. 

“Rest well, sir; the linens are in the top drawer.”

Francis watches his steward being carried off to be absolutely ravished; but said steward wants this; should he change his mind, Little can be trusted to oblige: to release him back, or seek out the sickbay together. 

Still, his heart is heavy as he closes the door. The changes happened far too fast: it is barely dusk, yet both men broke down; and Jopson had acquired animalistic features within a blink. Is it possible that fighting these instincts make them all the more acute? If so, the experiment may have the most embarrassing consequences—a success for their mission, yes: but a failure to himself.

What options does he have? He will not seek out an alpha; he cannot think of any who would have him. The joke Thomas made about Fitzjames is swiftly dismissed. No doubt, the good Commander must have found some way to preserve his civility. Francis pictures him in Erebus’ great cabin, sitting by a window; the moonlight is touching his skin, yet it does not affect him. He has a glass of wine at hand, a book in another; he is lounging rather comfortably while lewd chaos erupts around him. Perhaps fangs clink against the glass; maybe his chuckle is too deep, as he turns a page. Yellow eyes flash at Francis, as if he was caught in his imaginary voyeurism. He cannot help it: his eyes stray to the considerable bulge between James’ long legs, so leisurely spread. The press of his hard cock, astutely ignored: James is from a better breed, doubtlessly, than to touch it; Francis’ own hand palms his erection. 

Should he—? But if there was an emergency—he could be called any minute; and if he were to be seen diddling himself, risking his health for a mockery of pleasure, his reputation would never recover; people would whisper: he could not even find an alpha in rut to fuck him; he was in heat, after years and years, and nobody wanted him. His hand withdraws from his prick. He can pretend, even to himself, that he just sought to adjust it. The wetness: that cannot be ignored; he runs his tongue over his teeth, checking if it will catch on a sharp point. Control; restraint; he shall be able to master his instincts, lest he be accused of sabotage. 

* * *

The wine-dark sea stretches out in front of him; if the ice did not glint in the moonlight, he could believe it to be safe, for the water is calm and smooth like glass. The round bits of ice seem like innocuous raindrops on a window, as if he could wipe them away. 

If he came to find peace on the foredeck, he had miscalculated. The brisk air does not refresh him: the frosty bite of the night is merely a reminder of the dangers they brave. The moon is pale, out of reach. He is solitary here, leaning against the railing, half-dressed like an invalid so he would not sully his uniform. He is trembling in his boots; it is not on account of the cold, but heat, burning within. Lust spreads like fever. It is aimless; it cannot be named. It is a vague craving for human flesh. To be embraced. Penetrated. Claimed. 

Oh, he is too old for this. 

A ripple tears through the sea. Over the groaning of ice, of the ships, he hears slow splashing: oars, and a boat gliding through the water. 

“Shit,” he mutters. 

What idiot would challenge the night? It is dark: he cannot make out more than what the moon illuminates with a dim blue hue. 

“Oi!” he calls. “Who goes there?”

A faint light, like a firefly, draws nearer. At least the ninny had the wits to bring a lantern. Francis curses under his breath, goes to grab a lifeline. He might need it: they had lost Oren the day before on Erebus, Terror lost Young, he is not letting any more die, not a single man, that cannot happen; no more deaths; three, already, on Beechey Island, it is intolerable, unbearable, he will not stand for more; he cannot, cannot—

He feels bile rise in his throat as he bends over the railing, squints into the glimmering void. Groans when he can make out a shape. Nearly screams, when he realises who it is. 

He could murder James. 

He would do it with his bare hands. 

Wrap his fingers around his throat. Squeeze the life out. Pompous, useless fop: it is his foolish admiration that enables Sir John, that makes this experiment necessary in the first place, because they are not frightened of the ice, but God forbid they do anything unbecoming. 

James is no more than a tall shadow. His eyes reflect back the light, a horrid glint that nearly makes him recoil. He grips the rope harder, and calls out again: James has nearly reached Terror. 

“What brings you here?” 

“What do you reckon?” James shouts back. His voice is rough with righteous anger.

“Rather early to break, isn’t it?” Francis snaps. James, at least, looks just as tatty as he does. He has ventured outside without a hat: he did not neglect to throw on his fleece-lined cape, however, or his boots, trousers, jacket. Should his hair not be in such disarray, should his eyes stop burning, he would be ready for muster. He grabs the lantern, and aims its light at Francis. It does not fully reach him.

“Lower the ladder,” James demands.

“I hesitate to grant you entry on my ship in this state.” 

“Damn you; give me that rope.” 

Francis lets go of it, as if it did not mean a thing. He is not going to pull James up, but he may let him struggle with it a bit. The starboard is slippery; James is no AB; Francis would like to see him _try_ to climb in his expensive boots, besmirch his well-tailored clothes, try to execute any type of movement besides sitting in a fetching manner. 

But James is climbing already: he is light on his feet, does not even groan as he pulls up his own weight. His face promises nothing good. The rope is hooked to the railing: Francis can let go of it, step back and try to anticipate the motivation of James’ visit. Has he come to see his sweetheart marine? 

James climbs over the railing swiftly. He is barely panting, but Francis’ gaze is pulled to his chest anyway. He has heard James had been a gunnery lieutenant; his tales of valour had plentiful proof of his agility; but Francis thought—he was lead to believe—that all that was in the past: that James conjured up stories from cushioned seats, the lean muscle suggested by the uniform merely a residue.

He has been wrong. 

James stands, crouched over, the rope coiled around his hand, eyes a deep amber; his scent: heady and rousing. Francis wants him: but he wants him the same way he craves a glass of whisky. The want is damaging; it is to be thwarted; but refusal only sharpens the desire. 

That is what must have happened to James; no doubt, he valiantly fought his instincts—which had got him into this state. 

“I won’t stand for your scheming, Francis,” he growls. His teeth are sharp like knives. “Sir John had given you a fair chance to prove that there’s cause for alarm; I cannot see the reason why you’d sully your own proposed experiment.” 

Francis pulls his coat tighter around himself. It takes him a moment to process what James is saying: he traps Francis’ senses; seems to fill his vision, his voice—those well-enunciated words—drowning out any sound, even his own. “I know not what you accuse me of.”

James bares his teeth. Looms over him; Francis doesn’t pull back, puts up his chin. He could hit James. Oh, he could _hit him_ , and win. “All I ask is honesty,” James says, and starts circling him. 

“Explain then: on what matter should I be plain?” 

“What have you done to my clothes?” 

Francis frowns. James does not halt: walks around him, but keeps his distance—as if he is wary of Francis lashing out at him. Good: he better be.

“I have not touched a single article of your clothing.” 

“I reek of you,” James says. “I can smell you on Erebus, in the great cabin.”

“You can smell heat,” Francis corrects him. “You have other omegas on board.”

“No, it’s you. Only you. I cannot smell anything else but your skin, your hair, your slick.”

“Will you keep my bodily fluids out of this?” Francis snaps sharply; begins to circle too, shoulders drawn up. Ready for attack. “What do you suggest I did?” 

“How am I to know? Rubbed yourself over my things, to bewilder me, prove your point.” 

“I haven’t touched you; perhaps you can pick up on my scent because you’ve invited yourself over for dinner, because you insisted I visit—” 

James stops, abruptly, and gestures at the distant shape of his ship. “It’s been months,” he spits, “since you graced us with your presence, how could I still make out your scent?” 

“Perhaps the size of your nose allows you to,” Francis says with a sardonic edge; halts his steps, arms crossed over his chest. His nipples are peaked. He will ignore them, same as he is ignoring what mutinity is going on in his trousers. 

James grabs for him; captures his wrist. Francis yelps as James brings it to his nose. He is not proud of the sound. James lets go of him immediately. “It’s you all right,” he grumbles. Turns his back, marches to the railing. Francis is nursing his wrist, although it did not hurt; quite the opposite: James’ touch on his skin lingers like a balm: soothing, warm. James grabs the railing, and Francis half expects him to leap over it, run away in shame. James stands, a man defeated. 

“Have you tried smelling other omegas?” Francis suggests, almost gentle. 

Bewilderingly, James’ reply is, “Have you ever eaten a mango?” 

Francis could just turn on his heels and leave James to his absurdities. He stays. 

“It’s a dessert,” he says confidently.

“It’s a fruit from India.” James sighs, his shoulders sagging. He cuts a nice shape. Of course he does. His form is to be envied; his hair, his poise, his everything. “I used to eat it every day in Bombay, have it served as breakfast. The pit proved to be a spot of challenge, but I asked around; the locals had various and highly contradicting advice on it...in any case: I took it for granted that I could have it. I stopped focusing on the taste. It was one fruit among many. Returning home, I started craving it; there was no way to stifle that need. All I sought was that sweet, juicy bite again. Nothing compared.” 

He falls silent. Francis waits for a conclusion in vain; James has a tendency never to round up his stories, so he could just dive into another. Francis watches how James hangs his head. Realises there is nothing to add. 

“I’m your mango,” he says, stunned. James makes a gesture: _there you have it_.

“You have a singular scent. It’s unfortunate. However you achieved it, it is clearly sabotaging the experiment, which I was eager to undertake, and examine fairly, for all of our sake.” 

“Codswallop,” Francis spits. Wants to step closer to him, but thinks better of it. 

“I was unaware,” James says slowly, “that the suppressants were about to expire.” 

“How could that be? It’s your responsibility as commander to supervise the stock.”

“Oh, don’t lecture.” James pushes himself away from the railing and faces him. Something about his eyes is not right. Francis could swear they are dewy with tears. He cannot bear it. 

“It’s typical of you, is it not,” he says, standing at parade rest, “to ignore a problem until it affects you personally? You won’t be worried about the ice until it crushes you, but the humiliation of your attraction is enough to get you to act.”

“Mr. Reid says it’s a summer breakup,” James mutters. 

“Mr. Blanky and I have climbed the mainmast; we reported what we’ve seen; but you are going to choose the version of events that suits you best.” 

James stomps his feet. “Look at this ship,” he grits. “Iron plating fore and aft. It’ll go through ice like a knife through butter.” 

“You don’t know ice,” Francis scoffs, “or butter, for that matter. It’s never been cold enough in your room to make it solidify, has it? A lump of fat and oil. Good luck cutting it.” 

James snarls, resumes his pacing. He is not circling Francis now: walks to and fro, agitated, at the end of his patience. “You have never served on a steamship. I did,” he says. “We can force the Passage, if we go for it now. It’s not winter yet. The ice will break.”

“What makes you believe that?” 

“Sir John said so.” 

Francis struggles to process this; a mocking jeer escapes his lips. “You never verify his decisions, do you? You let him be responsible for the suppressants. How could you not have the drive to ensure he was right to forego a restock?”

James halts; turns to him, slowly. Francis keeps his posture; refuses the slightest tremble as James hovers over him, close enough for their breaths to mingle, those warm puffs of air. 

“I’m a navy man,” James says, his eyes flicking over Francis’ face. “I respect my commanders; I follow orders. Sometimes I wonder what you are, Francis. What kind of creature.” He grabs his chin. Francis lets him, insults caught between his teeth like sparks. James turns his face this way and that, as if to examine him proper. Leans closer; hesitates. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Francis spits, grabs at him and seizes his lips in a kiss. The sharp teeth part for him: all is wetness and velvety heat. Fury burns within; but James tastes sweet—tastes like summer; good Lord, maybe he tastes like mango. His own forbidden fruit. 

Francis breaks apart from him, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He is still holding onto him, grabbing at his cape. James is smiling at him: it is not to taunt or ridicule—nothing that Francis expects of him: the smile on his thin lips is just plain silly. 

“Well,” James purrs, infinitely pleased, “your cabin or mine, Captain?” 

“Mine,” Francis grumbles, avoiding his eyes. Damn it all; damn it all to hell. Jopson was right: now that he knows it, he wants more of the kiss; it is like the first bite, the first sip; starvation, thirst would be easier than to resist what is so plainly on offer. 

Francis drags James towards the quarterdeck. He will not waste time kissing him: that is not what any of them truly need. 

“Glad to see you eager for my company,” James remarks cheerfully; it has an edge of teasing—Francis cannot resist it. “Makes one wonder why you shun me so, why you neglect to visit when we could be, well.” His voice drops lower. “Such excellent friends.” 

Francis blinks. He understands what is implied: some sort of permanent arrangement. He does not care for that: he has a want, a craving to get James inside of him, give up his own heat in return; but when it is over, he will give him the boot, no doubt, and James will be thankful for it. He will not want Francis’ company once he stops salivating for him. 

“I don’t keep away from Erebus because of you,” he says. 

“Oh,” James scoffs. “Sir John. I must say, you are fortunate that your discourtesy towards him goes unpunished.”

“I would have every reason to seek his favours; I’m avoiding _Erebus_.” 

James halts. Francis tugs at his cape, but to no avail. 

“What happened?” James asks with genuine concern. They are so near the ladder: so near to warmth, safety, and not to mention, a cot. 

“Don’t give me that face.” Francis lets go of him. Looks away. His hands feel empty. “That ship used to be a happy place. Cheer; good company. I’ve always been welcome; what does it hold for me now? Empty memories of long nights spent there. I cannot face them.”

“You were Captain Ross’ sweetheart,” James says with dawning—if entirely misguided—understanding. Francis scowls at him. 

“I’m not that kind of man. Neither is Sir James. He was engaged.” 

“But you loved him,” James insists.

“He is a friend.” 

If only he could have been more than that. They met under the wrong circumstances. Sir James had been clear about this: the chances missed. Francis remembers his easy smile, his lingering gaze. A palm on his thigh, slipping there by accident, after a good joke shared. The growing distance: every tortuous breath of air separating them, when they could have been, should have been wrapped in each other. Francis ached with it every day, the suppressants notwithstanding. He will not be lectured on decorum: he has governed himself for years, for Sir James, for Sophia; Sophia should have been his escape: an honest life opposing the lure of danger and adventure.

But they have sailed—and kept each other’s company; nothing untoward, not ever. Whispered, drunk confessions. Not even a kiss to seal them: Sir James merely squeezed his hand. 

“He, too, made a miscalculation with suppressants,” Francis admits, addressing a spot above James’ shoulders, because he cannot face him and say this. “His own stock only. He hid from us all until he was turned. A red wolf. He left Erebus so he wouldn’t endanger anybody. I went after him through a snowstorm. I didn’t—don’t suppose I offered myself. I relied on our friendship only. I tamed him; reminded him of his gentle qualities; the human within. I built him a nest of rags. Stayed up and read. I nursed him back to himself.” 

“I never heard of anyone managing that,” James remarks, voice broken. 

“Neither had I. But I had to try.” Francis turns away to wipe his face. He hopes to God his eyes are dry. “Then we returned to England, and he married a beta girl. I attempted the same, and failed.” He looks back at James; forces a bitter smile on his lips. His only resort is to make it into a joke: if he is the first to laugh at himself, he cannot be humiliated. “So you see,” he says, “I’ve had it with young alpha explorers called James, and their glorious manes.” 

“I’m not him.”

“I know.”

“I’m _not him_ ,” James insists; he is not offended: it sounds like an urgent plea: to snap Francis out of his reverie, regain his attention: _do not ever think of him—I’m here._

Francis reaches for him; to comfort him, maybe; maybe just because he wants to touch him, selfishly. His tender heart will be the death of him: it will bleed, and bleed, and bleed. He cannot love James; he shall not; he has wasted his loves—ended up with nothing, alone and scorned, a stranger on a ship he used to think of as home. But he wants James: _this_ James, wants him completely and helplessly; because this James, he is allowed to have. 

He touches his forehead to his. “I’m creaming my trousers for you, not him.” 

James chuckles, the sound just a little forlorn. The smell of his hair: would he doubt himself, if he was able to sense it? It makes Francis dazed; he is slow to understand what James says, his voice a rich rumble. “What else will you do, just for me?” 

Francis pulls back, his hand resting on James’ neck as his gaze flicks over James’ features. There is a shadow of jest there: he is ready to be reprimanded for his greedy quip, but no doubt, he would try to bargain. Francis is tempted to chide him, but it is made difficult by the pulse under his thumb, how it jumps; the faint scratch of invisible stubble; that _scent_ , getting stronger.

“Do you have any suggestions?” he asks, quirking a brow. They can both pretend to be undecided: make it into light flirtation, coquetry, risk a tease; but desire is a tide: they are soaking in moonshine; their want will rise and rise, until it bursts over whatever wretched dam learnt manners have erected. If they were not serious about this, they would have parted already, fled from each other’s company.

Yet here they are.

James puts his hand over Francis’; it eclipses his blunt fingers, his wide palm. James’ hands are delicate, elegant; but his nails are sharp, ready to scratch. 

“I can think of a number of things you could do for me,” he says, so low it is almost a growl. He caresses Francis’ jaw. “Open up.” 

Francis barely parts his lips; but James is quick—his thumb slips in, exploring, testing the points of his teeth. Does he have fangs already? He cannot feel them: the taste of James’ skin numbs him for any other sensation. It takes all his willpower not to suck or lick, not to chase the soft saltiness of it. 

“I knew you’d have quite a bite,” James muses. “May I examine further?”

“By all means, proceed,” Francis says around his finger. He will not linger on what James may want to insert there: that he would seriously be considering wasting their time by just having Francis fellate him. Would he be inclined to do it? The idea sets his mind aflame: he sees James at Terror’s dinner table, legs spread, expecting to be serviced and giving naught in return but the taste of his spill. No doubt, he had omegas thank him for the privilege to lick him clean. He cannot fault James for wanting to master him that way; but he is still his captain, still— 

James gently cups his arse. 

—his superior. His will, surely—

James has warm, solid hands. He presses closer. 

—his will can still be expected—to have superiority—

James has a warm, solid cock too. It rubs at Francis’ thigh, meaty, hard, while James feels him up; while Francis lets him do it; while he ruts against him hastily.

“Oh dear,” James says, breathing into his neck. Francis’ skin prickles; every hair stands on end in a full-body shiver. “You are _quite_ wet.” 

“Some would say it’s a sign I’m ready to be fucked,” Francis snarls; resists another impatient jab of his hips. The slick has seeped through layers of linen: his state could not be more clear. 

“Feisty, are we,” James says, clearly enjoying the moment. Francis again considers hitting him. “Well. It’s Captain Ross’ loss.” 

“I will thank you for not mentioning him further.” 

“Do you find my possessiveness premature?” 

“Rather.”

“My apologies, then.” James’ hand travels up to the small of Francis’ back, and a ticklish kiss is pressed to his neck.

Francis frowns, befuddled. He did not think James capable of introspection, let alone willing to admit his wrongs, but even more bewildering is the implication—however scant—that there will be a time when such territorial behaviour will be proper: when Francis will be offered James’ devotion and loyalty in exchange for a promise of something exclusionary. How ridiculous of James, to indicate that he would ever choose Francis as his lifemate: but the thought excites Francis—to be so needed; to be claimed forever; guarded like a prize; James snarling at other alphas, while Francis wears the mark of his teeth like a wedding ring. 

He would never marry a coxcomb like James, a fool half-mad with hormones and babbling nonsense just because his fingers touched some wetness. But by God: he is ready to fuck him further into senseless abandon, until he cannot speak anymore. That is a lovely thought. 

* * *

They make it to the great cabin. The walk there is a blur, but Francis would like to think they both looked adequately distinguished while undertaking it, that his awkward waddle was not too noticeable, that nobody gave a damn about their captain and commander besides saluting them. The door closes. He is immediately crowded against it. James kisses him as if he has been starving for it, as if whatever transpired on the deck merely increased his hunger. He is burning like a furnace, even though the tip of his nose is quite cold, and so are his ears when Francis grabs them to pull him away. 

“A _moment_ , if you please,” he scolds him; there is something playful in it, which cannot be helped: how could he not feel just a bit bubbly when those warm eyes plead for the grace of his lips, when he is so indiscreetly desired. He slides free from James’ embrace, wondering if they will laugh about this, once their fervour subdued, or if James will start to avoid him, maybe even pretend nothing had ever transpired. 

Francis is ready to give him hell.

He lights a lamp: it burns low, casting an orange glow over the darkened place. He turns to find James still by the entrance, his palm pressed over his groin, rubbing at it vigorously while watching Francis. There is a violence to it that shocks him, a maddening need he did not think yet present. 

“Stop that at once,” Francis says. “Come here.” 

To his wonder, James obeys. His head hangs low in submission: his lustrous locks falls forward, framing his flushed face. What a stunning sight. Francis’ fingers ache to be tangled in that hair, pull and yank. 

He takes a seat in his usual chair to compose himself. James stops, waiting for orders. Good, then: not everything is upside down yet. 

“Undress,” Francis says. He himself is still without a waistcoat or jacket: he buttoned up his coat on the way here to hide his reduced state, but he puts it aside while James sheds his cape. Francis thinks it perfunctory rather than erotic. He will not linger on the enjoyment of it: they need to get naked to copulate and find some damned release. Except the cape hits the hardwood floor, a heavy pile of fleece and thick wool, and now he can smell James proper: musky, thrilling. It goes into his head; it goes elsewhere. His cock pulses, he clenches around nothing. He needs to be filled. He cannot look away.

James stands before him, gingerly peeling off his jacket. Every item of clothing is pressed and ironed. The gold watch chain gleams, the buttons shine with it. He looks like Francis was taught to look: a powerful man, fully in control, and his flair of vanity, the way he shakes his hair back, does not diminish that. Is it right, to claim supremacy over him? Did Francis not wish to be ravished? The vulnerability of that desire is frightening: all that he can cling to is rank, seniority; but he does not want James to hold himself back—he is an alpha, he is a commander. If Francis wants him, he cannot ask him to be anything less. 

“Kiss me again,” he says, and swears it to be his last order. James bends down as he captures Francis’ lips. There is clarity in it: instinct telling him that this is what he wants, more of James, and freely offered; the taste of his mouth, the probe of his nose, all that and more. Francis lets himself comb his fingers through James’ hair. It is almost a caress. His hands trace those sharp cheekbones of his, the apples of his cheek, the deep lines leading to his lips. James breaks the kiss as Francis touches them to check if his pointy teeth had marked it by accident. 

James peers at him, eyelids drooping, and chuckles softly. “Your eyes.”

“What about them?” 

“The pupils.” 

“Does it alarm you?” 

“It’s a subtle enough change, considering. I’ve never seen a blue-eyed fox before.” 

“Now you have.” 

James goes down to his knees, between Francis’ spread legs, to inspect his eyes better: he is trying to catch a shift of light in them, judging by the way he tilts his head. Francis is still in his shirtsleeves, braces, trousers, yet he feels entirely naked under such delighted scrutiny. There is something endlessly endearing in James’ curious nature; has always been; if only it did not pose a risk—it is this same insatiable curiosity that pulls them deeper into the Arctic, until there will be no more escape. “What colour is your fur, when you turn?” James wonders. 

“Delay our dalliance a bit longer, and you ought to find out,” Francis grumbles. 

James squints mischievously, dragging his gaze over Francis only to lock eyes again; then his face falls. 

“Your fur,” he says, “isn’t white, by any chance?” 

Francis remains silent. 

“By Jove,” James scoffs. “Have you told Sir John you’re a bloody snow fox?” 

“If he doesn’t see the value of my human experience, why would he find any reason in my beastly senses?” 

“You can smell the frost coming. You know how to hunt seal. Did you not think that would be useful information?” He tugs at Francis’ shirt. “God, no wonder you’re never cold.”

“Has it ever benefited you to reveal animal skills to your superiors? In my experience, it’s an object of scorn.” 

“Well, I don’t know.” James props up his chin, using Francis’ knees—so comfortably as if they were lovers of old. “If somebody expects to despise you, you may surprise them yet. I’m not stating it’s an easy feat, but I had some moderate success in the matter. I volunteered to deliver some letters during the Euphrates Expedition, once our sponsors failed us and we were out of suppressants; your friend Captain Chesney was a self-confessed skeptic of alpha abilities, but he let me carry the messages in a cylinder tied around my neck. I walked the first five hundred miles half-beast, half-man; for the rest, I roamed as a wolf. I had no human intelligence; but I was used enough to this beastly state (for I turn frequently) to remember my direction, until I finally happened on an omega fox who was just as happy to meet me as I was to see his bushy red tail. I’d been a wolf so long I was hardly myself when I reached London, and had to suffer a fortnight of solitary confinement in a nearby asylum until I could recall my name; but the letters were found on my person anyway.” A fond smile tugs at his lips, as if he is proud of the memory. He scratches his chin in a show of unselfconsciousness, and addresses Francis’ chest. “But you loath my stories, I know.” 

“I only loath when you boast,” Francis says gently. He feels a conflicted sympathy for James’ reckless bravery, charming in its hubris; would he find it vexatious, were he not in this state? Is he warming up to James, or is it just the heat? 

“I suppose it might sound vainglorious to you, but I should think that if one’s life story sounds like bragging, he must have spent it well,” James asserts; for such a cocksure claim, there is a shadow of uncertainty over his brows as he says it. It fades; but Francis still feels the need—an accursed, futile need—to comfort him.

“I shall allot you some credit for sparing us the details of your conquests,” he says. James huffs at that; starts playing with the material of Francis’ trousers. Such a tease of a man; Francis expected nothing else. 

“I would hesitate to call them that,” James says. “As a wolf, it’s instinct; as a man, it’s even less: a financial investment. I seek out some committed beta men in brothels, until I can sail again, and I go back on suppressants.” 

The admission twists something in Francis’ gut. Why is it that most people he knows of the lesser sexes enter such unsatisfying arrangements? Why does he do it himself? Oh, he knows: he knows the risks, the fears—but James? Strong and stunning, who should have a skulk of omegas rolling at his feet—what makes him spend money on sex, when no doubt it is freely and joyfully offered to him by half the people he meets? 

“Why would you ever hire betas?” he asks. Pets his hair again; he is unable to resist it. 

“I’m none too eager to sire bastards,” James grumbles as he leans into his touch. 

Francis inhales shakily. “How oddly responsible of you.”

“It’s entirely selfish,” James says, and presses a quick kiss to Francis’ wrist, almost an apology for failing him in the one thing he ever praised. He looks pensive, as if he is thinking of something more to say, but decides against it. It breaks Francis: he wants him chatty, he wants him honest. 

This James is not like the one at the dinner table: he withdraws inside himself—away from Francis—and he cannot bear it. He kisses him soundly, taking the self-accusation from his lips. He tastes better than any sip from a crystal tumbler; can his rentboys even fathom his value? Do they know who beds them? If James entertains them with his fantastical tales, do they see beyond them? Can they see the man Francis does? 

James talks up a storm to hide in the thunder, but Francis knows him better now than to be hoodwinked by such a simple trick. He kisses along the line of his jaw, breathes into his ear; he should say something, but words fail him. 

James mistakes the sigh for restless desire; he bends down, smiling—he finds confidence in what he is doing, so Francis lets him, more for James’ sake than his own. James makes him spread his legs further, nuzzles his crotch. He is shameless; he rubs his face over it, breathes in the heady scent of Francis’ desire, prods at his erection with his nose. Francis needs to grab the armrest to steady himself; he wants to press forward, grind his loins all over James’ face, but that would be woefully unbecoming. It is odd that James pays mind to this part of his anatomy at all: like prioritising a beta woman’s clitoris—a hidden spot Francis had discovered in his forties—a useless organ of pleasure, not reproduction. He is too old for any child to come from this union, but James’ instincts must push him towards the want to breed. Still: James licks at his cock through the fabric, and seems perfectly content when Francis swears and jumps in his seat. Laps at him again; sucks his own saliva from the fabric, until Francis is nearly as wet in front as in back. 

James’ deft fingers unbutton his trousers; Francis grasps his hair. He always loved men with longer hair; it is becoming less and less fashionable, but there is something so terribly romantic in it, something both sophisticated and untamed. If James were to ever cut it, Francis would be in agony; he would cry, mourning it. He lets the silky threads fall through his fingers, then yanks at them when the tip of James’ tongue slips into the slit. 

“Jesus Christ!” he grunts. James’ breath tickles his wet cockhead; he looks up at him, and licks at his throbbing length. By God, those fangs: Francis is at his mercy—and he wants to slide into his wet mouth, show his trust. He should stop: there is no reason to confide in James—he is a far better cocksucker than navigator; his magnetic calculations are a disgrace; he has shown good leadership, but his loyalty to Sir John might prove to be fatal; these shall not be forgotten, nor forgiven, even as Francis presses himself deeper into his mouth—not inserting himself in full, so he could escape with a pull, but James is careful with his teeth, overjoyed to worship an omega prick. Where is his pride now? Does Commander Fitzjames not exist at all? Has he always been this eager young man, gentle, considerate, a little bit broken? 

Francis stops himself before he starts fawning over James’ tragic beauty. He cups his stupidly handsome face. “I need you to fuck me,” he says urgently. He does not reveal that he hopes it will stop him from being foolish, from pining for James. If he has him, he will no longer want him: he will not crave his mouth, his secrets, his bare soul revealed. 

James sits back on his heels, starts undoing his trousers; it is quite difficult, with clawed hands. Francis considers righting himself, but it is pointless: he will be naked in a moment. His face burns at the idea. He makes the mistake of looking at his own cock: how eagerly it points forward, demanding more attention, swollen, pink and spit-wet. The caresses of James’ tongue are still felt. He is not likely to ever forget how it felt; it is probable he will miss it a fair deal.

His forlorn gaze finds James again. His eyes round; his mouth falls open. 

He may have forgotten how alpha cocks look, when aroused. 

The size is not a surprise. The size often gets talked about. Beta men seethe with envy: call it ungainly and disproportionate. But then there is the knot: just at the base of James’ long, hard cock, nearly the size of a fist. Francis will not be able to take it. He notices the ridge almost as an afterthought: the hard line on the underside of the veiny shaft. Only James could make a cock like that still look elegant. There is a graceful tilt to it; the length balances the girth, and overall, it suits James, standing so proudly, more joyous than threatening, a triumph of an erection. 

“Do you really expect me to believe that some rentboy can handle that?” Francis says as James stands to remove his boots and trousers. 

“A well-paid one, with the entire night booked, a sense of adventure and and a bottle of olive oil.”

“Olive oil.” 

James tosses a discarded boot aside. “Little trick I learnt in Greece,” he says with a wink. 

Francis swallows around a lump in his throat. “Do you happen to have any?” 

“I should think you’re wet enough for me. Let us see.”

Francis stands, unable to resist the offer. He avoids James’ gaze as he steps out of his boots, undoes the braces; his trousers and underwear end up in a sorry pile, along with the sodden bit of linen. He is dripping with slick: it sprinkles down his thighs as he turns his back to James, gets hold of the table. His shirttails should cover his dignity, but not for long, he knows. 

James steps up to him, grasps his arm. Impatient man: he did not shed his shirt either, but oh, he is naked everywhere else. Francis can feel it as James presses closer, so they are chest-to-back, James’ cock probing at the cleft of his freckled arse, but not breaching the entrance yet: that is left to his fingers. James hums low in his throat as he dips his pointer inside Francis. It glides so readily; a mortifying sound follows it, a horrid _sqluench_. 

“My apologies,” Francis says, colouring. James hums again; caresses his arm, his shoulder, as his finger curls in deeper. Francis has never been _touched_ there: nobody, not even himself bothered to map out these nether regions. James, ever the explorer, breeches him with a second finger, spreads him wide open. Francis’ knees buckle: he both craves and fears that monstrous prick slamming in sharply. It is not forthcoming: James seems content to touch him, his thick fingers moving out and in, in a slow, pulsing rhythm, until a spot is reached and Francis nearly howls with it. He bites his lips, but scratches at the table. His nails, his _claws_ leave a mark. The thrill of that single touch races down his spine, a frightening bliss spreading with it, curling his toes, pinching his eyebrows, a full-body sensation that finally settles in the pit of his stomach, heavy like an anchor. 

“Did that please you?” James whispers into his ear. He sounds like he is smiling. Francis cranes his neck to look at him. 

“Don’t make me say it,” he begs, hoarse. 

“But I would so dearly love to hear it.” 

Francis bides his time to find words by kissing James’ pouting lips; squeezes around his fingers, to feel reassured, filled. James’ free hand cradles his nape; guides him down, gently, gently, until he is bent over the table, the edge pressing into the swell of his belly and his buttocks on display. He inhales sharply when James kicks his legs further apart—merely a nudge, but Francis feels like the world is tilting. The room looks askew for sure. He longs for the moment of being penetrated: he just does not feel quite prepared, not yet.

“Are you ready for me?” James asks, taps his fingers at his stretched rim. Damn it: his body is waiting to pull James right in, his heart is soaring, his mind is drifting away with it—but the gripe in his stomach will not ease.

“Felt too good,” he says. 

“Mm?” 

“What you did with your fingers. I cannot be certain—” He clears his throat. Tries again, his own voice raspier than he has ever heard it, “I don’t know if I would be able to handle the intensity of the sensation, should we begin in earnest.” 

He hopes James will understand: James, who runs headfirst into both pain and pleasure, whatever awaits on the other end of an adventure. Francis is peevish: call it survival instinct. 

James caresses his nape. “I can escort you to the sickbay, if you wish; we can get you the suppressants.” 

Francis snarls at the mere idea. “I would like to make a stab at it, damn it; let us just have some kind of strategy.” 

James makes a sound, somewhere between amused and fond, and slides a hand under Francis’ chest to help him stand upright again. “I could pull you off, Captain,” he offers. 

“Won’t do. I want your fancy prick.” Francis worries at his lips, thinking. His sharp teeth catch on his mouth. If he ponders on their options too long, he will end up a goddamn fox. “Do you suppose you could just, well, rest it there before I grow a bloody tail?” 

“Like so?” James puts a finger between Francis’ cheeks without pushing in. Francis spares a thought to how freely James is touching him already; that he could get used to it, being fondled without any reservations. He clears his head; goes down to his elbows, arse urgently pushed back. James whines and curses. 

“If you will,” Francis says, bracing himself. James gets two handfuls of his buttocks: it must be hell, holding himself back, but he takes his time to line up proper. His hot length rests in the cleft of Francis’ cheeks; the weight of it is exquisite. Francis just needs to convince himself, with reason and rationale, that he is biologically equipped to welcome it in the most tender part of his body without the imminent threat of death or injury. James start moving, tentative, through the slippery slick. 

“You feel so good, Francis,” he tells him, gripping the supple flesh of his arse so it is tight around the enormity of his cock. It is not the most eloquent praise Francis has ever received (even though he has received little), but it affects him nevertheless. Makes him sentimental and silly: makes him want to take James already, inch by inch, and not for the relief of it, but the unity, to have him deep, claim him and be claimed. 

He stares resolutely ahead. It would be just like him, would it not be, to be sweet on somebody just because they showed the barest hint of affection. The map of King William Land catches his attention: it is spread on the table, the edges curled from Francis’ worrying fingers. He glares at it, contemplating the dark hours he spent searching for a rescue plan. Will James deny their union? (Lord, it _does_ feel divine). If he does so, they will face quite the paradox: they could get icelocked with no suppressants at hand. (James twists his hips: he is an artist, there is a dance and a musicality to how he moves.) The promise of this, of more mindless fornication is almost alluring. He would not even have to make James like him: he could have him, just for himself, if James chose him on the basis of mere familiarity, for a year, two, three—but it would be disastrously selfish. 

They need to turn back; need to restock on suppressants; anchor in a safe harbour; avoid each other again; this night is all Francis will ever get. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” James asks. For a moment, Francis knows not what he means: thinks of James’ own beauty: what a sight he must be, humping Francis in his shirtsleeves, but lacking any disgrace. Francis imagines his long legs, his twitching arse, and that mighty cock of his, how it must look, getting wetter. 

“Huh?” is what he manages to say. 

“That white spot,” James says, and adds on a tone that wants to be ironic but resonates with awe, “The unknown.” 

“Would it be so terrible, to let it keep its secrets?” Francis asks. The spot is like virgin snow; some men, he knows, have the inclination to leave their footsteps on the landscape, mark it, _I was here,_ but not him: the service of the Discovery service means (James, James, James) the service means (the way he is rutting at him, building the pace) being the first to ever lay eyes on the solace of undisturbed beauty (his sighs are a symphony). 

“All I ask for is the world in its entirety,” James whispers into his ear, “and you would deny me the joy to explore it.” 

Francis notes the sardonic tone; it does not mean he has to acknowledge it. He needs James to understand—he must understand, otherwise how will they ever see eye to eye, how will they ever again—

James needs to understand the stakes, at least, the miserable futility of all that is left to do.

“Our mission was to find the Passage,” he says, trying to control his voice while James is resolute in shocking little gasps out of him; with breath hitching, he hiccups up the truth, “and establish if it can be used as _ahhh_ , a trade route. We cannot find the Passage; there are no thaws; the waters are more hazardous than— _hahh_ —we previously thought. We can already say, _fuck_ , with confidence, that the _mmm_ , mission has failed: all we found was— _oh_ —bad news.” 

James stills completely. “Oh. Well. If you must put it like that.” 

Francis has not expected his words to have much effect; he peers over his shoulder to read James’ expression, but he cannot see it. He turns to face him. It means exposing his shameful state: his flashing fox-eyes, his cock straining for touch, the linen of his shirt sticking to his sweaty chest, and his scant hair, no doubt, badly tousled. Offering his arse at least granted him anonymity: he could have been just one omega out of many. He does not look attractive, beetroot-red and shivering—but he does not need James to see him, but see his reason, find _that_ desirable, because James has turned out to be more clever than he lets on, just as bright as he is beautiful, he— 

James is looking at him with a stunned understanding, head tilted to the side. His shirt falls over his insistent erection; he ignores it, and reaches to cradle Francis’ face. A soft, and entirely perplexing kiss is pressed to his parched lips. 

“It must be lonely,” James says. “Being the smartest of us all.” 

“It can be,” Francis admits. Hope flutters in his chest; he tries to suppress it, but his heart cannot be stilled—not when James tilts him back; lays him over the table; climbs atop him; says:

“You won’t be lonely anymore.” 

The next kiss is more demanding: it asks for confidence, a faith in James, if not their circumstances, to have an _ambition_ for survival. James’ breath is the breath of life: kissing him makes Francis a believer in sunny things. James pulls back: his warmth is missed, even as his taste lingers—dark grapes and chocolate. He gets off the table, and Francis calls after him, “I thought I won’t be lonely anymore?” 

“You will not lack company, or comfort,” James says with determination as he collects his cloak. He spreads it out on the table, climbs back, maneuvers Francis so he is lying atop the soft fleece. Francis wants to remind him that he has a berth in about five steps distance, but surely, James is _aware_? There must be a reason he wants to claim Francis here: atop the table he slammed at today, reprimanded James for his quips. Is it retribution—or perhaps, more likely, an apology? 

James kisses Francis’ knees; spreads them, and whispers, his lips dragging over the sensitive skin of Francis’ thigh, “Let me in, please let me in.” 

Words get caught in Francis’ throat, choked by emotion. His mind races, but his heartbeat is even, his verdict steady. He nods, once, sharply, and gets up to his elbows. James pulls Francis’ shirt up, reveals his drooling cock. A fond caress is spared to it; Francis hisses, bites at his lips. James keeps rolling up the shirt: uncovers Francis’ cushy stomach, and kisses it; his reddened, freckled chest with the thinning hair—James sucks at a nipple. The shirt is rolled up into a ball, then James’ own shirt follows, to be tucked under the small of Francis’ back. 

Francis looks at the young man kneeling between his open legs, who shows irrefutable willingness, even enthusiasm to fuck him senseless, and his mind fails to grasp the concept. He lets his body take over: relaxes, best he can, as James guides his cock into him, unhurried, almost _leisurely_ , assured that he has apt time to take Francis apart. 

There is a shock to being breached: Francis gasps in a way that makes him sound offended, then frowns with it, feeling his body adjust. If he does not focus on it too much, it is easy: just taking what is so freely given, trusting James’ experience, trusting him, and wanting him near. 

“Come here,” Francis says, idiotically; but James does not point out that he is currently working his way inside, and hence could not possibly be closer. He does what Francis really asks: lies down to hold him. The angle inside shifts: Francis growls, but now James can close him in his embrace, and Francis is able to feel his heartbeat, his smell, his heat, the entirety of James, not just the so far foreign parts of him. 

James’ erection slides ever deeper, and Francis is content to receive it, be filled. It feels like a missing thing has been put back into place: like the numb pain of cold receding, as one warms up to realise, _I have feet, I still have a nose_ . Frost melts within: slick dribbles out as James pushes in deep, and Francis thinks, _I have you. I’m no longer cold; now I can feel you_. 

He kisses James’ cheek, his ear; bites down on it when James is fully seated, the knot caught at the entrance. 

“All good?” 

“Don’t stop now.” 

James chuckles; rolls his hips to work Francis more open, chases his lips and rocks in lazily, the terrible tease he is. Francis’ toes curl at every pull, every new kiss. He feels like the shore, and James is the ocean: each wave that laps at him forms him. He could do this for centuries: be a cliff, be there for James, always waiting for his touches, meet his force with his own power, steady, patient; cliffs erode, but the ocean is molded, too, as the waves crash into foam. 

“You’re a remarkable fellow,” he says. Clumsy words, but embellishments would make his praise dishonest: his regard is rooted deeper than superlatives could express. He is fully aware that James Fitzjames is a unique flare in history, a falling star he somehow managed to catch in his palms. Remarkable, indeed. 

James’ eyes soften: they are brown, again. Francis gets lost in them. He grips James’ strong shoulders and urges him ever deeper, holding his gaze. A smile tugs at James’ lips: a smile Francis has never seen from him, all teeth. “You cherish me,” he says. 

“Only when you’re being cherishable,” Francis corrects. 

James kisses his neck in answer, to hide a chuckle. Nibbles and licks at Francis’ skin, just over a jumping vein. Francis trusts him with it: finds himself keen to yield every part of his body. The knot slides in, stretching him to his very limits; there is a moment of sharp pain, then eternal relief, as it slots into place inside of him and he clenches around it, welcoming the sweet strain. A demand has been met with it: he feels a new awareness of his body, every part of it humming in such rapturous bliss he cannot help but moan with it. 

Then James starts fucking him. 

Every snap of his hips is ecstasy: the rigidity of his length jabs deep, tantalizing, sending Francis into a mindless delirium. He floats atop the wave of sensations, holding onto James’ gaze so he would not completely drift away. James’ eyes reflect naked lust and a peculiar yearning, as if he was still chasing after Francis, as if he expects him to disappear. 

_I’m here_ , Francis wants to say. He lets his body speak: grinds his hips up into James’, sinks down onto his pulsing cock. He claws at his back: at first, it is tender—teasing scratches just to feel the lean muscles beneath his palms shift; then James slams in, and Francis yelps, tearing at his flesh. 

“Do that again,” James asks, his eyes heavy-lidded, bright. Such a pretty pet; Francis would loathe to besmirch his fair skin. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. _Not in any way; not ever._

“It hardly hurts,” James objects, and reaches under the small of Francis’ back. He pulls him up higher, supports his weight: ruts in deeper; the new angle lets his cock brush against that naughty spot that makes Francis get light-headed and faint. “Please, please,” James pleads. “Let me marvel at your marks in the morning; convince myself that what we had was real.”

Francis growls, hooks his claws into James’ shoulder. He wants him to remember: pinned down by his cock, so full of him, it feels impossible that any of them would need much convincing that they ever shared these dazed, ardent moments—but with each movement, the end draws nearer, the impending euphoria of it both an enticement and a threat: too soon, this shall end.

Francis holds onto James, claws sharp, then wraps his legs around his slim hips; James pushes in; they are completely adjoined, gazes linked, and their bare souls with it. 

“Will you let me have you again?” James pants, the snaps of his hips faster, more desperate.

“Greedy man, you haven’t even finished yet,” Francis says; James hangs his head, pleased to be reprimanded. What a queer thing he is, endlessly perplexing. Francis moans softly when James nuzzles at his soft chin, nibs at his jaw. 

“Will you?” he demands. 

What future could Francis possibly promise? He recoils from the thought of it; holds onto James, squeezes around his hot length possessively but thinks, _you deserve better than all I could give: I’m Irish; I’m an omega; my income is modest at best; I won’t ever be promoted—_

And yet: he wants what he should not crave—he wants James to be his. They make each other come alive; they could share this celebration of life many nights, spend the endless winter wrapped in each other. They could make it a deal: survival over glory. 

“You promised to be my companion,” Francis tells him, head swimming. “I can _ah_ , promise you the same; but you would have to _hah_ , trust me.” 

James meets his gaze. “You always had my adoration; I hope you know that; and I hope you can tell you have _mm_ , my utmost confidence.” 

“I—suspect.” 

“Mark me, then.” James bares his throat for him. The mere sight of it is endlessly arousing: his pale, graceful neck, not hidden by a stiff collar or silky ascot; but what he asks is the wrong order of things: alphas ought to mark their mates, and such a mark is as binding as an engagement ring. James knows this: he asks for it anyway. 

Francis rolls them over; maybe he wants to beat some sense into James’ head by knocking it against the table. Straddling his hips, he squints at him, scrutinizing, taking into account his disheveled locks, his flushed cheeks, his heaving chest. James sinks back in with an almost bashful jab of his cock; Francis is not made of stone: he welcome it eagerly, rocks his hips as his gaze find James’ neck again, follows the tempting bob of his Adam’s apple. 

“Are you certain?” 

“How could I not be?” James says wretchedly, eyes falling shut. “I love you: please accept me.” 

Love: that explains many things. Francis sways as James’ hips twitch up into his heat, and thinks of dinner stories, all that boasting he thought unforgivably self-absorbed, but which apparently had a secret addressee; considers the very fact that James has found his way here by following his scent; his eagerness to be accepted, his rather dramatic affront whenever he was not, and how he would take any form of attention, even off-handed insults and reprimands. The pull of sympathy is stronger than Francis’ conviction of all what he lacks: his heart batters in his ears as he bends down, every beat bleeding with the utmost affection, gratitude and remorse. 

He sinks his fangs into James’ neck. 

A kiss of death is a kiss nevertheless. A bite like this would not be survived by many: but James shouts, thrashes under him; he lives—arches his back and spills into Francis, his knot swelling. Francis kisses the scar on his neck, laps up the blood. It tastes divine: it is sacred like wine and seawater, for it belongs to James. Francis is a tabernacle, holding his holy seed within and blessed blood painting his teeth. He reaches down, fist closing around his own prick. He chases his pleasure without shame: it is a ritual, a liturgy. James holds his hips, whispers his praise, and welcomes his release with a kiss that tastes of salt and iron and the sweetest of promises. 

* * *

“I must say I’m very disappointed,” Sir John tells them the following evening. The officers, Francis included, avoid his eyes. The great cabin is a miserable sight: perhaps Sir John cannot smell the sex (James and Francis had seen to it to get the place aired), but the state of the marines and lieutenants tell a sorry tale. Sergeant Bryant is a wolf now, perched on a chair; Lieutenant Gore and Lieutenant Le Vesconte do not meet uniform code, and the reason for their missing articles of clothing is all too obvious; Lieutenant Hodgson is sipping on suppressant from a china cup, and even Lieutenant Fairholme, a beta, is severely distressed. Thomas looks miserable, nursing coca wine rather pointedly. Lieutenant Little is absent, and Jopson as well; complaints had been made concerning the noises coming from their barred cabin, and a rumour of moaning ghosts has started already. Lieutenant Irving tried to put a stop to it: but there is something suspicious about him, and how he is being trailed by Sergeants Tozer and Heather, standing guard by him now. 

Compared to all this, Francis should feel assured of his aplomb. He had acquired suppressants on the morn. They shared the bottle with James in bed, between lingering kisses; fallen asleep with limbs entwined as Francis played with James’ hair. No-one should be able to tell. Admittedly, the way James sits is quite a clue: he rests his hand on the back of Francis’ chair, and his spread leg is hooked over Francis’ knee, cheerfully kicking the air to the rhythm of some inner song. Francis would rather subject himself to a sermon of good conduct, even lashes than to shoo him off, when his closeness is so needed. 

James had elected to forego an ascot, and left his collar open. Beta men would never think of it: but it is fashionable among omegas to show off a fresh mark—and James, the alpha he is, is not afraid to do the same, proudly drawing glances to the bruise of Francis’ claim. 

Francis sits with his hands folded on the table, back straight, jaw set, in fresh clothes with his hair neatly parted. He pretends not to take notice of how Sir John is looking at his companion, with fatherly worry; how his eyes dart between Francis and James. Francis waits for the moment it sinks in that he managed to marry into the Franklins’ extended family after all; not the sort of union that would be recognised by the law, but one that cannot be denied.

“Is there any one of you that has not fallen for seduction?” Sir John asks. Only Thomas raises his hand. “My word,” Sir John whispers. 

“Sir,” Hodgson says, “I wanted to report—combatting the, well, inclination, I had the idea that an indulgence in food might thwart other appetites. With Mr. Diggle’s permission I searched the pantry. My heightened sense of smell alerted me that there is something wrong with the tins. Ravenous as I was, I could simply not stomach any variety.” 

“What is wrong with them, exactly?” 

“There’s metal in them, sir.” 

Sir John spreads his hands. “Well, the tins are sealed with lead.” 

“Something told me,” Hodgson explains gingerly, “not to eat lead. It’s not just the little balls the men reported to fish out: everything in the can smells tainted, and inedible.” 

“I had a similar observation,” Gore chimes in. “My attempt to sup failed; I compelled myself to consume veal cutlet tomato, sorry to waste our supplies of salted meat on a hungry frenzy, but it wouldn’t stay put.” 

“The Hudson Bay Company works with a different supplier,” Thomas says. “Their stocks won’t be tainted.”

“There’s plenty of caribou at Gladman Point too,” Francis adds.

It marks the end of Sir John’s patience; he makes a face of utmost distaste. “I hear your concerns,” he says, “but we have enough fresh supplies to feed those with such sensitive noses. To me, this experiment only proves the necessity not to abandon Erebus: I dread to think what would become of us, should a full moon rise on you in close quarters.” 

“If we restock on suppressants—” Francis begins, but is interrupted by Irving’s announcement. 

“I’m with child.” 

All eyes turn to him; James’ expression of amused shock reflects Francis’ own emotions. He strokes his thigh while everyone is preoccupied with gaping and glowering at Irving. 

“Lieutenant,” Sir John pleads, exasperated, “pray tell how could you even determine such things in an early stage?” 

“We can smell it, sir,” Tozer reports.

Sir John presses his lips to a thin line. “You are the proud father, I presume?” 

“One of us must be, sir,” Heather tells him earnestly. Thomas scoffs, and disguises it as a cough. Irving puts up his chin, the apples of his cheeks reddening, but a resolute shine brightening his eyes. 

“I know the Lord blessed me with child,” he says, “relying on the laws of probability alone.” 

It is Le Vesconte’s turn to bark a laugh; Gore rubs his back. They are both alphas: but it is not unheard of, what they have. Francis is starting to realise that they all might be sitting around the table where he got deliciously ravished, mounted again and again after he had claimed James, as if it was a prelude to the life they would share now: Francis had been taken from behind, and then James cleaned him out with his tongue; he had felt so enticingly filthy, kissing spit, semen and slick from from James’ lips, then licking him to completion, just to taste him anew—it might all be true: but judging by the state of their companions, they were the best behaved by far. 

(He might consider how they lazed around lavishly, after they had taken the suppressant and woke as if from a feverish dream; how James held him, and how much Francis enjoyed feeling his flaccid cock in the cleft of his arse, his hand on his belly, laughing when James called him _voluptuous._ The callous enjoyment of every touch shared, which no longer enticed but still thrilled; watching him dress; letting himself be dressed; a play of chess and their feet brushing together; a glass of whisky poured, but mostly sipped from James’ lips; the idleness of all of it, and the utter lack of guilt. It would be judged more harshly by the polite society than their night of passion, which could be framed as a mistake of an altered state: but now, sobered, every moment is chosen, and they keep choosing each other.)

“Taking these reports into account,” James says, spreading further into Francis’ lap, “I believe it is our moral obligation to go for broke.” 

“ _Et tu_ ,” Sir John murmurs. He closes his eyes, and lets out a weary sigh. “I propose a vote. Hands up for Gladman Point.” He risks a glance around; his shoulders sag. “Very well. To work, then.” 

James jumps a little, excited; Francis anchors him in an embrace. 

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, alpha and omega are alternative sexes, which are diverse in gender expression; however, Victorians kinda suck at understanding it.
> 
>  **Content warnings** : fantasy anatomy: alphas have cocks that basically look like dildos with a knot; omega males can self-lubricate and give birth (no pregnancy is described in the fic, but it is mentioned); alphas and omegas are also capable of shapeshifting (no bestiality: they don’t approach humans in their wolf/fox form) | Victorian attitudes towards gender, sex and masturbation | consent is explicitly negotiated, but is influenced by being Very Horny due to a rut/heat | monstrosity linked to sex, gender expression and other healthy things
> 
> The Hudson Bay Company had no outpost at Gladman Point, but I will do anything for a fix-it, including but not limited to faking historical records.
> 
> Also, this fic wants you to pretend that the wardroom meeting in ep1 took place on Terror, even though that makes no sense. 
> 
> Many thanks to [@ktula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktula) for the proofreading and beta'ing!
> 
> Toss a [reblog](https://longstoryshortikilledhim.tumblr.com/post/190272385356/what-a-wicked-thing-to-do-a-werewolf-fic-for) or a [retweet](https://twitter.com/forautumniam/status/1217465114649120769) to your witcher 🙏


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